


Possible (30/39)

by Mexta



Series: Possible [30]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post-412
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:58:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emergency</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possible (30/39)

"Oh, fuck--" Mickey dropped down beside the limp body on the floor next to him. "Ian!" He reached forward to turn Ian's face toward him, until he noticed a strange shuddering in Ian's chest and shoulders. 

Mickey's hand froze in mid-air. "What the -- " The shaking grew faster and more violent, Ian's shoulders jerking up and down, his chin lifting and falling, eyelids fluttering rapidly. Mickey stared, then turned his head to yell into the darkness around him. "Hey! I need some fucking help here!" 

Ian's hand flexed and curled spasmodically, like a claw. His back seemed to arch upward, pressing his shoulders into the floor. Mickey slid an arm under Ian's neck, meaning to lift him up, but a man's hand on his forearm prevented it.

"Don't move him," the man ordered. "You'll break a bone. Someone get the lights!"

The room seemed to transform instantaneously, from a dark den of sex and depravity to a swarm of purposeful activity, lights snapping on, half-naked men catapulting into action. 

"Go get Justin -- "

"... tell Paulo to call an ambulance!"

"Anyone a doctor in here?"

"Check his airway!" 

To Mickey, it seemed like a nightmarish blur. Ian's still convulsing body was surrounded; someone shoved a sweater onto the floor under his head; someone else tilted his head back and forced his mouth open. The bartender, Justin, appeared suddenly, telling bystanders to move away and taking charge decisively. 

"Can't you -- can't you stop it?" Mickey demanded helplessly.

A man kneeling beside Ian glanced up at him. "No. Just let it run it's course."

"But he can't -- he's having a fucking heart attack!"

"No he's not," the man said, taking Ian's still flailing arm and putting a couple of fingers over the wrist. "His pulse is fine. I'm a nurse, I see this all the time."

"Move away," Justin ordered sharply. "EMS is here. _Move._ Get out of the way, let them through."

Mickey fell back, swept away with the rest of the crowd as a group of uniformed technicians came in, carrying equipment. He could only watch from a distance as they laid out a stretcher and positioned themselves at Ian's head and feet. 

"Should stop in a couple of minutes," the nurse said to Mickey. "Tonic-clonic by the looks of it - they don't usually last much longer than this. He get them often?"

"Get what often?" Mickey asked, bewildered.

Ian's body had stopped moving. One of the emergency workers began a methodical examination, as though searching for broken bones.

The nurse glanced at Mickey. "Seizures," he said. "He have them a lot?"

"Fuck, no." Mickey stared at the man half-angrily. "The fuck you talking about? He ain't epileptic."

"First time?" The nurse lifted an eyebrow. "What's he on?"

The technicians moved Ian carefully onto the stretcher and started to lift it. Mickey shot one last glare at the nurse and darted forward, grabbing the arm of one of the men with the stretcher. "Where you taking him?"

The man looked at him. "Who are you?"

"I'm his boyfriend, man. I'm goin' with him."

The man seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded. "You can ride in the ambulance. Follow us."

***

Mickey had never been in an ambulance before, but he was far too distracted to think about that now. He watched the technicians as they did their work, administering oxygen, taking assessments; they talked to Ian periodically as though to test his awareness, but he seemed to be unconscious. In between, they asked Mickey curt, mechanical questions that he tried his best to answer -- how long had the convulsions lasted, where had they started, what happened beforehand, had he been having trouble breathing?

"He's stable," one of them said to Mickey, eventually. "Should wake up soon. Likely won't remember his name or know where he is."

They were at the hospital before Ian opened his eyes. Mickey followed the gurney into the emergency room, where it was met by hospital staff who quickly took over. They asked Ian, now groggily awake, his name and the date and if he knew where he was or what had happened. Ian responded with bleary confusion, and Mickey had to bite his tongue to stop himself from correcting the answers, which were mostly wrong. 

Then an admitting nurse came over with a clipboard and started asking Mickey questions about Ian -- age, family, medical history, insurance. Mickey could answer most of them, though he winced as he conceded that they had no insurance.

"Medications?" the nurse asked.

"Um. Bupropion ... " Mickey struggled to remember the names of the other drugs Ian took, as he watched the gurney being wheeled away down a hall. "Where they taking him?" 

The nurse glanced over at the disappearing figures without interest. "They're getting him a bed. Other medication?"

Mickey listed the full regime and the dosages as well. He knew them all, since he generally administered the pills to Ian.

"Anything else?" the nurse asked. "What did he take tonight?"

"Just the usual," Mickey said mechanically.

"Alcohol?" The nurse glanced from her form to Mickey's face. "How much?"

"Uh ... " Mickey shook his head, trying to think. "A couple of beers. Three or four."

"That it?" 

Mickey hesitated. "A bit of coke. Just a bump."

The nurse wrote it down. "He do that often?"

"No. I ... no. This was the first time since he started takin' all that shit."

"I assume he knew the risks." The nurse didn't phrase it like a question, and when Mickey stared at her, she just nodded at a set of payphones across the room. "You might want to call his family. He's likely going to be kept in for a day or two so they can run some tests."

Mickey walked over to the phones mostly to give himself something to do. He searched his pockets for change, picked up the receiver, tried to remember the Gallaghers' phone number. Then he imagined the conversation he was about to have, and put the receiver slowly back into the cradle.

He walked back to the admitting nurse. "Can I see him?"

She glanced up at him, already lost in some new paperwork. "Ian Gallagher? No. They'll be getting him set up. Try visiting hours tomorrow. Eleven till nine."

He wanted to protest, to demand, to threaten. He thought about causing a scene, starting a fight, getting himself arrested. At least then he wouldn't have to tell anyone what had happened. But he wouldn't be any use to Ian either then, he realized after a moment. 

Finally he turned away and crossed the floor of the emergency room, to the big sliding doors he'd come in through just a few minutes before, with the technicians, the stretcher and Ian. Now, alone, he began the long walk to the Gallaghers' house.


End file.
